


I want to hold your hand (I think you'll understand)

by victoridiaz



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1970s, M/M, Music, Pining Idiots, dancing (not what you'd call good), it wont let me tag the beatles but theres beatles, very drunk Aziraphale and Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 05:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19864447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victoridiaz/pseuds/victoridiaz
Summary: “You’ll like this one.” Said Crowley, already pulling out one of the records. “It’s culture, Angel. You’ve got to get your head out of the eighteenth century.”What the hell, thought Aziraphale. He was feeling a bit adventurous tonight. He let Crowley man the record player. Aziraphale wasn’t very good with it anyway.-Crowley and Aziraphale get very drunk one night and Crowley decides to introduce the angel to a band he really should have heard of by now.





	I want to hold your hand (I think you'll understand)

_**Soho, London, 1970s.** _

“And I said, of course _,_ Gabriel, I’ll do it, a small miracle, really, no problem. But _really,_ Crowley, did he have to? Dreadful trouble, it’ll be, getting down to East Berlin at the moment. And it’s just a simple blessing.” Aziraphale was sitting on the sofa in his Bookshop. The neon lights of Soho filtered through the windows and cast a dim glow around the place. He had a full bottle of red in his hands and was waving it about like a handheld device trying to pick up a signal.

“Sssorry Angel, can’t do this one for you.” Said Crowley, taking a drink from his own bottle. He was draped around a wooden chair and had abandoned the wine glasses hours ago. “Got other stuff to do. _Faroe Islands_. They could have told me to go _anywhere_ else.”

“Mmmm.” Muttered Aziraphale, taking another drink. He felt a light, fuzzy feeling brewing in the back of his mind. “Gabriel.” He started. “Is being such a - stickler at the moment. I just wish he would get off my shoulders.”

“Tell me about it.” Drawled Crowley, waving his arms above his head. “Hastur won’t leave me _alone_ these days. And that’s nothing compared to-” He took another huge drink. “Beeeelzebub.” He choked out. “Thank Satan for humans and their _alcohol._ ”

Aziraphale grinned. He hadn’t been this drunk in a long time. It was rather unorthodox, wasn’t it, getting completely pissed with a demon, but if he was being honest, he had a rather good time doing it. Crowley was _fun_ to be around, contrary to the other angels. He laid eyes on the demon. He still had his ridiculous draping haircut and round dark glasses. It was the first time they had met in a while, and it hadn’t been planned, either. The two had run into each other in a bar, decided to consume as much as they could before they had been booted out, and then come back to the bookshop to drink more. Angels and Demons could hold quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol in them if they made an effort.

Crowley slammed his bottle down on the arm of the chair. “Right.” He said. “’S time for some music.” He stumbled over to the record player in the corner of the room, eyeing Aziraphale’s collection. It was modest, a small shelf or two with various vinyl’s stacked meticulously in alphabetical order. “What you got?”

“Ah, mm. Some Handel might be nice. Perhaps Tchaikovsky.” Said Aziraphale, closing his eyes.

Crowley riffled through the angel’s collection. “Bugger.” He muttered. “Nothing but classical. You’re behind the times, angel.”

Oh well, thought Crowley. One little miracle wouldn’t hurt, would it? It wasn’t exactly as though Heaven praised _rock_ in any case.

He emerged holding a stack of records.

“What’s a Beatle?” Asked Aziraphale, eying the one on top. “Misspelled insect?” 

“ _Seriously, Aziraphale._ ” Sighed Crowley, exasperated. “The Beatles? Biggest cultural icons of the cent’ry? ‘S no way you haven’t heard of them.”

No answer. Aziraphale was searching the back of his brain.

“Rock n Roll?”

Still nothing.

“John Lennon?” tried Crowley helpfully.

“Ah yes. That’s the bloke you were trying to dress like a while back.” Aziraphale concluded.

Crowley sighed. His hair was a bit longer since the late sixties, but he had rather liked the style of sunglasses and had kept them, much to the angel's annoyance. “Right.” He muttered.

Aziraphale adjusted himself on the sofa. “You know I’m not very partial to, er, Rock and Roll, I believe you called it.”

“You’ll like this one.” Said Crowley, already pulling out one of the records. “It’s culture, Angel. You’ve got to get your head out of the eighteenth century.”

What the hell, thought Aziraphale. He was feeling a bit adventurous anyway. He let Crowley man the record player. Aziraphale wasn’t very good with it anyway.

A familiar voice sounded around the bookshop. Well, familiar to Crowley, anyway. The Demon smiled and mouthed the words.

“What’s this one called?” Asked Aziraphale after a while. He had closed his eyes and was listening intently.

“Seriously Angel? Hey Jude?” Groaned Crowley. “Please tell me you’ve heard this song.”

“Sorry.” Mumbled Aziraphale. “It is nice, though.” He moved himself a little to the beat. The song went on. 

_Na, na, na, na na na na._

Crowley found himself singing along softly. Then not so softly. He swung the bottle around, willing it to fill itself again. Miracle wine was never very good unless he put in a _lot_ of concentration, but Crowley was really too drunk to care at this point.

The song faded, and Crowley flipped the record. He found himself singing the lyrics to _Revolution_ as Aziraphale watched, his eyes shining and his face smiling.

 _Lord, we’re drunk,_ thought Aziraphale in the back of his mind. The tune felt familiar, and he caught himself humming along gently, grinning at Crowley as he drank and sang happily.

By the time _Penny Lane_ was sounding through the bookshop, Crowley was up on his feet, his empty wine bottle a microphone, warbling out the lyrics and dancing around the space as Aziraphale laughed. His mind felt fuzzy and he clapped along to the beat.

They giggled their way through _Help!,_ mostly laughing at Crowley’s undesirable dancing, and Aziraphale even sang along to the _Yeah Yeah Yeah!’s_ of _She loves you_ as Crowley screamed them out, pointing at the angel on the couch and shaking his hips drunkenly.

Aziraphale was well into it by the time another guitar opening sounded.

_“Oh yeah, I’ll tell you somethin’_

_I think you’ll understand.”_

Crowley sang, matching the tune of the record player.

_“When I say that somethin’_

_I wanna hold your hand_ ”

Aziraphale blushed as Crowley turned to him, grinning and singing drunkenly.

“I wanna hold your hand! _”_ He sang, and Aziraphale thought, _alright then._

He got up off the couch and took Crowley’s outstretched hand, giggling.

“’Ziraphale-” Crowley grinned. “You’re drunk.”

“So’re you, my dear.” He smiled, trying to dance the way Crowley was doing it. He clapped along to the song. It was rather catchy, he decided.

_And when I touch you I feel happy inside_

_It’s such a feeling that my love, I can’t hide._

Crowley looked into Aziraphale’s twinkling blue eyes and felt his cheeks flush. Aziraphale wished he’d take those dark glasses off, the lighting in the room was dim enough already, so he really didn’t need them.

Crowley was smiling, and Aziraphale took his hands and they spun each other drunkenly around the room, dancing and laughing. He kicked an empty bottle and heard it roll across the floor. _I’ll clean up tomorrow,_ thought the angel, distracted by Crowley who was now air-guitaring with a lamppost.

“Careful, darling.” Laughed Aziraphale. That casual _darling,_ it only ever showed its face when Aziraphale had exceeded the fill line on his alcohol capacity. 

Crowley grinned at him. “I’d no idea you liked ‘Rock and Roll’, angel.” He drawled, putting an emphasis on the _and._

“I’d hardly call this, well- I suppose I don’t know.” He replied as the song came to an end. 

Crowley put down the lamp post, grabbed the angel’s hand, and twirled him around the floor, just for the fun of it. A few books tumbled off the shelves as Aziraphale crashed into them clumsily.

Crowley put on another song, and then another, and another, and they danced and sang along, Aziraphale mumbling the wrong words and the wrong tunes. Crowley, not surprisingly, knew all of them. They blushed their way through _All My Loving,_ danced through _A Hard Day’s Night,_ and Aziraphale was feeling quite floaty by the time he was sat back down on the sofa, swaying to the gentle tunes of _Here Comes the Sun._

“Surely you’ve heard this song, Angel.” Said Crowley, his eyes closed, clutching the leg of the chair as the room spun around him.

“I think I may have, once.” Replied Aziraphale. He hummed along softly. Perhaps he could get used to this sort of music. It made him think _Crowley._ It was rather lovely, in a way. The lyrics were nice, even if they made him flustered a bit, and the sound of the guitar and vocals was a lovely break from his usual symphonic soundtracks. Besides, he was _dreadfully_ drunk, and you could really enjoy anything when you were full of as much alcohol as he was. Aziraphale didn’t have intentions of sobering up any time soon.

The song finally faded out, and it was quiet in the bookshop.

“You know, Crowley.” Said Aziraphale softly. “I didn’t know you could sing.”

“Ngk, I can’t- well, not really..” Stammered Crowley.

“But you can, dear. You’ve a lovely voice.” 6000 years, thought Aziraphale, and Crowley was still surprising him.

“Well, been ‘round quite a while, so I learned the piano…then I just sort of, picked it up, I guess.” Muttered Crowley.

Fact: Crowley also knew how to play the accordion, and the pan flute, and the electric guitar, but not the Tuba. He was terrible with brass instruments, much to his own annoyance, as well as the annoyance of the plants that had listened to his attempts at the Trombone for much of the 20s. He also could not play the harp. Crowley had never touched a harp, and he wasn’t planning on doing it any time soon.

“Well, you’re very good, in any case.” Aziraphale smiled to himself. It was late, and he was slowing down with the drinking. Though angels could hold more alcohol than humans might deem possible, even celestial beings had a limit. He supposed it was the drink acting when he said, suddenly: “Well, why don’t you sing me song. Go on.”

Crowley motioned towards the records, but Aziraphale stopped him.

“No, just your voice. It can be another, er, John Larry one-“

“John Lennon.” Sighed Crowley. “And that was the Beatles. There are four of them.”

“Mm. Well, they were nice. Sing me one we didn’t hear.”

Crowley’s stomach was churning behind his tight clothing. “Mmpk.” He said. “Er, but you haven’t got somethin’ to play on-”

“I do now.” Said Aziraphale, and a small keyboard appeared in front of Crowley.

“I see.” He said. “Angel, I can sing along to the songs, but I don’t _sing_ them.” _Not in front of anyone, anyway,_ he added to himself. 

“I don’t mind.” Aziraphale hadn’t opened his eyes. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hoped Gabriel wouldn’t ask about the keyboard. “anything’s alright with me.”

Crowley sighed, and took a final drink of wine. It wasn’t as though either of them were going to remember this in the morning anyway.

He touched the keys hesitantly. Best go with something he knew.

“The long and winding road,” he sang, the familiar chords sounding under his fingers. “That leads to your door…”

_Will never disappear._

_I’ve seen that road before, it always leads me here._

_Leads me to your door._

Aziraphale relaxed, listening to Crowley’s voice and the piano ring through the bookshop. He thought that perhaps he could fall asleep. He’d had quite a night, after all.

“ _Many times I’ve been alone, and many times I’ve cried_

_Anyway you’ll never know the many ways I’ve tried”_

Aziraphale felt himself drifting off. He’d never bothered trying to learn any musical instruments, but he’d always loved the sound of the piano. “It _has_ been a long and winding road.” He murmured, more to himself than anything.

“ _And still they lead me back_

_To the long and winding road._

_You left me standing here_

_A long long time ago.”_

Crowley’s voice was barely a whisper. He watched Aziraphale’s chest rise and fall, his face soft and contented. The way he was pressed into the pillow on the couch, hands in his lap, eyes closed, falling into a sound sleep. Beautiful Angel. All the bright lights of Soho, all the neon signs and energetic bars and street lamps could never equal the radiance of Aziraphale. He glowed like a star, and yet the bookshop was still dim, and Crowley was comfortable in the shadows. He thought of all the times he’d played this song, alone in his apartment, cursing himself for that one wrong note, that one bit on the piano he could never get right. He took his hands off the keyboard.

“Don’t keep me waiting here.” He sang softly, his voice breaking just slightly. “Lead me to your door.”

The last line was barely audible. Aziraphale was asleep.

Aziraphale awoke to find himself still curled up on the couch. He felt groggy. He hadn’t slept in a very long time, perhaps a few hundred years, and it always rendered him rather useless when he awoke from it.

Morning sunlight filtered through the window, illuminating the dusk specs in the air. Aziraphale briefly noticed the records strewn across the floor, and wondered for a moment why there was a keyboard in his bookshop.

He remembered, however, when he turned over and saw Crowley, still fast asleep, on the other side of the couch, his hand every so gently touching Aziraphale’s leg.

Aziraphale murmured something to himself and smiled.

He knew how this would go. Crowley would wake up, and act all flustered, and take his things and leave politely, just like he always did.

Aziraphale wondered if one day, maybe Crowley wouldn’t have to go.


End file.
